


no man needs nothing

by nightofdean



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Blade Runner Fusion, Deaf Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26959009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightofdean/pseuds/nightofdean
Summary: In 1953, the Korean War is over it is also the end of the Cold War.As nuclear fallout spreads so to does technological advancements, and a new science, bio engineering, and the creation of replicants.Now it is three years later, 1956, and many changes have taken place.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

_A blood black nothingness began to spin._

_Began to spin._

In the distance, against the orange skyline, a motorbike stuttered to a halt oil and biofuel completely run out by the sound of clanking engine, wheels rolling to a stop. BJ’s feet hopped to a slow stop on the dusty path, the kick stand sliding out automatically, he swung a leg over the bike.

BJ bent down inspecting the motorbike and found what he suspected was the cause, the gash torn in the oil pan, he looked, the biofuel cannister was damaged too. This would put him back a week behind schedule – examined the plastic crate on the back of the bike, a large W emblazoned on it – he had a package to deliver.

Bit his lip worrying it – twisted the metal band on his finger – must have been that high radiation area, he cut through miles back, weakened the tank.

BJ took a circuitous route around the bike, searching the hazy orange horizon, held a hand to his nose over the kerchief that protected his lungs from the burning atmosphere. Well, protected was a strong word, the piece of cloth was nothing more than a barrier. He could see nothing through the haze.

Best bet would be to repair the biofuel cannister and find materials to burn. Ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back, and stood back up. He flipped open the old bikes saddle bags, and took out a bag – checked the contents, MRE’s, First Aid kits, radiation pills, a black plastic square turning almost forest green – on the front in fading Russian it said: First Aid Medic.

In the bottom of the medic sack he felt the heavy weight of a pistol, and knew the necessity of it, but also hoped he wouldn’t need the weapon. He’d been lucky so far, the barrel was still full, knew that much. Yet, knew when men thought they didn’t need a weapon they usually used it. Carefully he stored the weapon – frowning at the wasteland before him, evidence of that thinking - remembered when he admired the strength of a man who refused to use guns.

Took out the radiation meter and tied it around his wrist and set back down the path in the direction of what he hoped was the location of materials to repair his bike. BJ attached a laser pointer to his shoulder, careful to not walk in circles a crude way to orient in the orange haze of ash and smoke. There were, of course better ways, he heard about like satellite, but it was expensive and only certain individuals had access to it.

BJ let his mind wander as he walked, letting the red line lead him forward on and on. He simply thought about the same things he reviewed when driving, always the same thing, his memories of the MASH 4077th, his time in Korea. Always, a blur of messy thoughts, a shift of red and pink, and cluttered thoughts. BJ remembered the war ending, and just as it did, they were ordered to stay put, and dread stuck in his stomach like a peach pit.

They weren’t allowed to leave for months afterward, everything was reordered the entire military hierarchy was annihilated, the MASH had an overhaul. By the time they could leave, nothing was the same, no one was the same after.

All BJ could think about was before, because compared to this, the horrors of war were practically nostalgic. The smell, the taste of the liquor, the O club, the little parties they had just to bring joy, where it seemed joy was lost. The little smiles, and gestures, the normality they tried to make amongst chaos.

It pained him to think about, but it was better than nothing, this wasteland.

Pain shot through his knee - dusty ground rose to meet him, red stained his palms and kneecaps – looked down and saw the enormous crack his foot had fallen into. Examined longer, and saw the stack of flyers inside it, BJ stood up pulling his booted foot out. Picked up a handful of the flyers, flipped through them, and frowned.

The first was advertising a brighter and better future with a new model of Ford truck. It was extremely faded, the edges curling up. The second promised a new healthy work force and a way back to _normality._ The poster sported graphic hand drawn figures of humans in identical jump suits both men and women, welding a car. The sides of their faces were an anatomical cross section instead of bones they were metal and clockwork. BJ frowned at the image, at the top of the poster was an emblem W. BJ crumbled the poster and threw it as far as it could go.

Innovation always seemed to come after tragedy, which came right after war.

BJ stared into the middle distance, mind turning, it wasn’t all bad a lot of good came out the innovation of replicants – and so did a lot of bad. Unable to forget what happened when the first replicants arrived at the MASH, watching them take people away, _real people._

All he could do was watch, he’d been useless then, even worse no one would listen to him. BJ ground his back molars together, hand clenching, he saw the radiation meter, it was light green.

Just a little further, he told himself, he’d find organic material.

_Let's move on to system. System._

It was past midnight in the green zone, at Fort Hood, but the sun blessed them on each morning with a beautiful blue sky. So long as it didn’t rain, the rain was poison. A lot of organic life in Fort Hood was radioactive, officially Margaret hadn’t had a steak in six years. Unofficially, it had been five years, but she still hungered for real meat.

She heard Klinger talk about finding a deer out behind the base, but it had unfortunately been inedible. Which was a growing concern of Max’s considering his wife’s pregnancy, she needed iron in her diet and subsisting on MRE’s alone and the mystery meat inside them was a risk.

Which was one of the reasons why she was awake at midnight, to talk to one of the last remaining sympathetic ears she knew. Margaret knocked on the Command Chaplain’s door and hoped it wasn’t too late for a confession.

The door swung open, and she was met with the blank expression of a woman– she thought was named Trent – stared at her, with dull green eyes, in the low light her complexion appeared dark.

“May I help you, Major?” said Trent, eyebrows and voice raising expressing a question.

“Uh, yea, I just – I need to speak to – “Margaret couldn’t believe she was doing this, rolled her eyes, “- just let me in, okay.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Look, I need to ask Father Mulcahy a question, ok, is that what you want?” said Margaret, frustrated, hands gravitating to hips in habit.

Trent looked at Margaret, examining the nurse, what little light there was reflected against Trent’s eyes, briefly Margaret saw a glint of red. A muffled voice drifted from inside the quarters.

“Let her in, Trent.”

Trent stopped the staring contest – Margaret saw a small smirk play on her lips – and backed away from the door. Margaret did a double take, wondering if she saw right, but dismissed it as another play of light.

She walked in and saw another woman – almost identical to the previous – standing not far off. Wearing a serious expression as she watched several monitors at once, smoking a cigarette as she did so. With each puff of the cigarette a cloud of smoke rose between her and the monitors, creating a bluish smoky haze.

Margaret didn’t know her name, neither woman had been members of the MASH before, their addition unsettled her. Still did in fact. Margaret approached looking around and found who she was looking for, working late into the night, head bent over a large monitor frowning at the screen. Head resting in right hand, it almost looked like he was sleeping with his eyes open.

“Colonel,” she said, standing at attention.

A pair of eyes gazed up at her – the title catching his attention – and Mulcahy’s expression turned to one of consternation. Lifted his head, and intoned, voice tired.

“You don’t have to address me by that moniker – “and leant back in the chair, glanced at the woman watching the monitors on the other side of the room, and back at Margaret, “- or the other ones.”

Margaret nodded, despite herself, things changed command structures had been completely gutted and reorganized. This was but one small drop in the ocean of transformation the world had taken. She tried to tell herself it was the same military just new window dressing, like a new paint job.

Couldn’t help letting her eyes glance at the name plate on the desk, the gold-plated title and rank, glared at her. Even her rank had changed considerably, she was still a Major but now she was more than that. In this new order she was practically a colleague of Father Mulcahy’s, in ways she hadn’t planned.

The system had changed, she clung to that when she was in the MASH, before. Trusted the system, now it stung her, abused her trust and insulted her existence. This wasn’t about her though, she had an objective.

“Father, there’s a shortage of organic meat and Klinger’s wife is due soon, we need to find some other means of sustenance if her baby is to be born strong and healthy,” Margaret said, quickly hoping she didn’t sound desperate or like she was begging.

Mulcahy looked up at her, and sighed heavily, before glancing at the women watching the monitors. A puff of smoke filled the air, and the room glowed blue. Mulcahy gazed at the ceiling, at the hexagonal tiles, lined with lead to protect them from the poisonous radiation storms blown in from the west.

“That’ll take some doing, Margaret, you know that,” he said, slowly, and looked again at the monitors, “Nicaea, pull up a map of the surrounding area.”

“Yes, sir.”

Margaret watched as Nicaea, shut down the CCTV and satellite footage and called up several maps of the area. Margaret frowned, and tried not to be curious about the necessity of so much aerial footage that it had to be done so late. Unless it wasn’t necessary.

Mulcahy crossed the room to take a closer look at the maps, Nicaea stepped aside deftly, and Margaret got a good look at her face, it was identical to Trent’s own. Margaret’s stomach clenched at the sight, at the dusty brown hair, brushed olive skin, and twin blank faces.

Margaret looked away as fast as she could, gluing her eyes to the monitors displaying the maps. Mulcahy, pointed at one screen at the bottom left, and said, “Zoom in here, 34 to 63.”

It zoomed in, clicking rapidly as it did so, enlarging an area flat wasteland for miles. “Again. 34 to 63”

The image enlarged, and forest began to appear, along with buildings. Mulcahy pointed the corner of the screen, “Here, enlarge 34 to 63.”

The forest disappeared, Margaret’s hopes began to sink, the monitor continued clicking as the image enlarged and she saw it. A deer, grazing on what she assumed was grass.

“There it is, life remains,” said Mulcahy, sighing heavily, as he tapped the image of the deer, the screen rippled and fizzed at his touch. The image of the lone deer distorted at his touch. Mulcahy mouth twitched upward into a wain smile, his forehead connected with the image.

Nicaea took a cautious step forward, seemingly concerned.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he held up a hand, shaking, “I will be fine.”

Slowly, Mulcahy stood back up, composed, “It’s beautiful, truly,” he said, looking at the image of the deer, probably miles away.

Margaret nodded, she hadn’t seen an animal in years, heard a dog bark, pet a cat, seen any wildlife or nature.

“Shame we have to kill it though, but God provides,” Mulcahy said, and shook his head, “Margaret, will you arrange the hunting party.”

Right, Margaret thought, animals were food also, she felt sick but not enough to change her mind. Soon-Lee’s baby’s life hung in the balance, if she got a weak stomach over a simple fact of life then she’d be a worthless nurse.

“Ok, I’ll get right on that, Father,” she said, still too formal, and turned around leaving the quarters.

Just as she got within the threshold, she heard Trent’s voice, “She doesn’t like us,” and Mulcahy’s a second later, “Margaret is just nervous, she’ll warm up.”

_Feel that in your body. The system._

_What does it feel like to be part of the system. System._

With a compliment of a small battalion, lightly armored and packing only the essential weaponry needed for a hunting trip. They loaded the hybrids, starting them up, Margaret tried not to wince at the smooth ride as the caravan kicked up dust clouds in their wake.

She gazed ahead at the blue sky meeting the orange desert stretching out before them. Margaret glanced at Mulcahy, at the side of his face, he seemed to be thinking deeply about something. At least, somethings remained the same, and that realization gave her some comfort amidst all the confusion and chaos.

“What is it?” Mulcahy intoned, as the geo-positioning system chirped, and he changed gears.

“Nothing.”

Mulcahy’s right hand clenched on the wheel reflexively, “It isn’t nothing, Margaret,” he said, glancing at her, “we’ve known each other too long for that.”

Margaret looked down, examining her hands, all she had left to be of use. Imagined herself using them in weeks’ time to deliver Soon-Lee’s baby. Looked back up at the blue horizon, where elsewhere she knew it was impossible to see without the aid of satellites.

Mulcahy was focused back on the makeshift road, as she looked at him, and asked the question that was on her mind.

“You still think about him,” she said, slowly, the monitors all displaying the same location, the same place they knew couldn’t be reached, “don’t you?”

Mulcahy inhaled deeply, staring fixedly on the blank expanse in front of them, and exhaled the words that came next, “Yes, don’t you?”

There was nothing to look at besides the clear sky, that hadn’t provided them rain in months, but had for some reason given them a lone deer. God provides, she thought, in a barren wasteland where faith was all some had left.

“Why bother?” she asked, feeling some of that old resentment she felt at the beginning stir.

“Looking, you mean?” he said, the geo-positioning system beeped again, and he turned the wheel hand over hand. Ahead of them, Margaret could see Nicaea, leaning out of the hybrid sniper rifle pointed over the side.

Another hybrid drove in the opposite direction gun pointed in the same direction; flares popped into the air. A small brown smudge appeared in their line of sight; several guns went off in quick succession. Margaret flinched; this was what she had wanted, too find meat for Soon-Lee’s baby, too make a difference.

The hybrid jerked to a stop and Mulcahy stepped out, Margaret followed soon after, though reluctantly. Both watched as sand colored uniformed soldiers, began the search for the injured deer. Margaret tried not feel relief, maybe they wouldn’t find the deer at all, and wouldn’t have to see its dead carcass.

Mulcahy paused for a moment, before they began following the others, and regarded Margaret.

“I look because God helps those who help themselves,” said Mulcahy, and walked away hands lost in his pockets, and she thought out of all of them he’d changed least of all.

_Is there anything in your body that wants to resist the system? System._

_Do you get pleasure out of being a part of the system? System._

“The trail ends here, and then nothing,” said Nicaea, frowning at the muddy puddle of animal blood. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s okay, Nicaea, sometimes things don’t make sense,” said Mulcahy, crouching down in front of the stain the animal blood created in the sand, he went from a crouch to kneeling. As he did so he crossed himself and whispered a prayer. Behind him, Nicaea and Trent, seemed to be humming their own hymn.

“Sir, we don’t have time – “said a young recruit, cautiously, taking a step forward.

“Shut up, Cole.”

“The hell do the skin-jobs got to pray for!” shouted another, soldier, agitated and frustrated. The man’s face growing red and flustered.

Margaret, pushed her way through the throng, shouting for the fighting to stop.

“Stop this now,” she shouted.

“You don’t have business here sis, back off.”

“Father, help, get them to knock it off.”

“Just a minute,” said Mulcahy, as he crossed himself again.

“No, _now.”_

As the infighting grew, the crowd somehow pushed Margaret down landing in the sand. Boots stomping dangerously close to her face and abdomen, instinct took over as she covered her face. But like all scared humans she peeked through her fingers and saw only sandy blood coagulating. The same Father Mulcahy just risked a fight over so he could say a prayer, if it had been her blood spilled in the vast wasteland, she wondered would he do the same for her.

“Stop this _now_ ,” and he didn’t shout, Margaret knew that, but it had certainly felt like it, Father Mulcahy had a way of speaking sometimes that sounded like shouting. A timbre that shook you to your soul, made you want to not look in his eyes. Father Mulcahy called it projecting his voice, Margaret wasn’t so sure, as time dragged on in the after years.

They stopped fighting; silence stretched over nothingness.

“Fighting like children, where all we have is each other,” Father Mulcahy looked at each soldier, tilted his head downward like he did in the MASH, when he heard something inappropriate. He looked up; a familiar expression Margaret knew. He was recalling a piece of scripture “– in these times we must remember to treat our Brothers and Sisters how we wish to be treated, right?”

The crowd was silent, Mulcahy looked down holding his hands together, but Margaret knew he wasn’t praying. He was thinking, planning how to calm the soldier’s furor. Mulcahy frowned, as he made eye contact with Margaret from where she had fallen and, as he began to approach Margaret, she felt dread sink in the pit of her stomach. He pulled her up from the dirt, gripping her hand tightly. Margaret wobbled unsteadily on her feet but remained standing.

“This – This is how you treat a sister of yours! You push her into the dirt, with the blood of animals, and don’t offer her help. Is that what you think of your fellow humans, as soulless animals,” it wasn’t a question and Margaret knew he wasn’t expecting an answer.

“Then let us pray for forgiveness,” he said, and every head bowed, hands clasping together more from habit than anything.

_Have they created you to be a part of the system? System._

_Is there security in being a part of the system? System._

As they walked away from the now departing crowd, Margaret could feel that old resentment build up a rumbling deep in her chest that begged for attention. Mulcahy walked sedately beside her as they reached the hybrid, and she was rounding on him with all conscious thought and logic.

Margaret realized with clarity as soon as she shoved Mulcahy – and watched him stumble backwards – that she was mad as hell and didn’t care.

“Never do that again,” she hissed – in the blank expanse sound carried a lessen they learned the hard way years ago.

Mulcahy steadied himself, and glanced at the platoon, found them busily packing up, “Do what?”

“Use me,” she said, waving an arm, articulating what should be obvious, “for one of your – your _damned sermons_.”

Mulcahy’s mouth turned into a straight line, “I’m sorry.”

And Margaret could only glare, anger still itching beneath the surface, “No you’re not, you got what you wanted didn’t you,” and she jerked her head in the direction of the men packing supplies.

Despite himself, Mulcahy looked, and saw a mixed batch of expressions on the men some, penitent others held resentment. Cole, the young recruit, looked particularly torn by the events. The divide among ranks was concerning but, could be handled at another time.

“I suppose I did,” he said, and winced as his hand flew up to clutch his right ear.

Margaret took an aborted step in worry, but Mulcahy seemed to recover before she could offer assistance.

“Are you alright?”

Mulcahy nodded, “Yeah, think I just had the audio gain set too high.”

Margaret opened her mouth to respond, but stopped, a strange familiar sensation floated at her back. A change in air pressure in the dry heat, and she heard a _pop_ and whistle, and the dreadfully familiar sound of a mortar exploding.


	2. Chapter 2

_Is there a sound that comes with the system? System._

_We're going to go on. Cells._

BJ crushed the bugs against the rock-hard surface and fed them into the biofuel tank and watched sedately as the machine processed the fuel source until a green light blinked. He shook his head, at the light and closed the tank now repaired and hoped it would carry him on the home stretch of his journey.

He kicked the stand out of the way, and revved the motorbike into life, warming it up. Felt the rumbling of the bike between his thighs and gazed out at the orange horizon and covered his eyes with polarized goggles and mouth with a scarf and rode down the same path he’d been on for weeks.

The flat horizon hypnotized him, clouds of sand rose in the air, obscuring visibility and dying the sky a permanent dusky orange. It was strangely beautiful, the desert, though it sent a painful jolt through him whenever he thought it. It _was_ beautiful, to see the remains of the past. All sand and vast ruin.

Toppled statues, and hollowed business sectors, steel frames were all that remained as he passed them by, the skeletons of the long dead. BJ didn’t know if he should be respectful toward this cemetery - as he passed through them - as there were so many, if it even counted as a cemetery.

They were only buildings, but the emotions they evoked, felt as if his heart was being torn from his chest. So, it, must be a cemetery of some kind, but the feeling soon had to be forgotten, and pushed like the past.

As he spotted valuable parts – now rare – amongst the ruins. Where steel beams reached out beneath the sand stretching toward the sky, as if calling out to be seen, remembered. A brass dog and girl bent sideways by the initial blast, and melted, stared mournfully at the sky, red eyes seeing nothing but red sky.

BJ took his spare parts from a pile of twisted steel as quietly as he could, placing the precious bits into his satchel. Sedately he headed back to the bike, the brass girl still staring up at the sky, melted brass spilled from the girl’s eye – now hardened into a tear, she appeared to be crying at the absence of blue sky.

Oddly he felt as if he should do something about it, fix the twisted statue so it could see something other then red horizon, but didn’t know what. BJ stared at the statue into its strange hollow brass ones and saw the blue of Erin’s flash back at him.

His heart clenched, hand clutching at the satchel, full of twisted steel parts, and felt incredibly weak and small, and tiny in the wasteland. One moment he’s about to go home to his wife and daughter, and the next he’s discharged and shipped across the country.

In the end he doesn’t do anything to fix the statue, left it standing there half buried in sand, dreaming of the burnt red sky. He lays in the sand under a foil blanket and hopes that whoever found his daughter, had more courage then him.

BJ turns over fitfully under the foil blanket, the nights are cold and brutal, while the days were hot and dry. All he can do is curl up and hope to survive the night, BJ stares at a clock counting down the hours, he has just one more week to get the package to its destination.

He closes his eyes and tries to dream of nothing.

_They were all put together at a time. Cells._

_Millions and billions of them. Cells._

“The Nexus 5s are untested and need to go through rigorous psychological evaluation before they’re ready for anything like combat,” said a masculine voice, before taking a deep drag of a cigar.

“Of course, with Weyland Industries, promoting Off-World colonies it’s only a matter of time before civil war breaks out,” the man continued, tapping out ash, and nodded his head, “and there’s the matter of burgeoning self-awareness in these old models.”

“The Nexus 4, you mean?” said another voice, confirming.

“Right, the life expectancy is unlimited, no caps.”

“And the Nexus 5 will be?”

The man replied, nodding, “And we’ve got quite the test to keep an eye on that baseline.”

“Hmm, and that is.”

“We call it the Voight-Kampf.”

“Voight-Kampf?”

“A test to determine replicants from human.”

_Were you ever arrested? Cells._

_Did you spend much time in the cell? Cells._

“Down!” yelled, Margaret, as the platoon, she and Mulcahy took cover behind their vehicles.

“It’s Luddites, sir!” shouted a soldier.

“Heretics!” shouted another, as another mortar whistled through the air and landed feet away.

At that several expletives were shouted, and ammunition was spent in the direction of the mortars. Margaret narrowed her eyes at the young men, too eager for combat, and hissed at Mulcahy.

“We need to cease fire; we don’t even know the enemy’s position and were wasting bullets.”

Mulcahy grimaced, Margaret held out a hand-held short-range radio, holding her gaze he took it.

“Cease fire, pull back,” he said, and watched as the platoon stopped firing and the jeeps pulled away as quickly as possible. And they too climbed into the hybrid, putting it into gear and retreating as more shells fell, kicking up sand in their wake.

An hour passed as they drove – into the vast nothing, sun reflecting off the white expanse, now having to protect their eyes with goggles. Margaret leaned against the doorframe, hand propping her chin up, she sighed heavily. That was their one chance to get food – real food – for Soon-Lee.

“What will we do now?” she said.

Mulcahy, shook his head slowly considering, said “I don’t know.”

A moment passed, the convoy slowed to stop and from the back they could see Trent waving them down to the middle section of the convoy. As they approached the near white uniforms that blended into the landscape came into view and Mulcahy could see that they were all gathered in a broken semi-circle. In the middle of it laid a prone figure, bleeding sluggishly, near death or already dead.

Auburn hair tied into a ponytail; olive skin turned ashen. He saw Trent staring fixed at the horizon, humming a mournful hymn of the soulless and knew what had become of her twin.

Mulcahy stared down at Nicaea, eyes glassy, slipping away into unconsciousness – toward a unique afterlife he had no framework of which to pray for intercession. Here there existed no Saints and Martyrs for the biogenetically engineered, besides praying to the replicants creator he knew no other recourse – but that he knew was heresy – man was no God.

Margaret felt for a pulse – a hard habit to break, compassion ran in her blood – and frowned when she could feel nothing. She looked up eyes watery, asking a question she had not given voice for three years, “Do we bury her?”

He looked down met Margaret’s gaze, frowning, knew the answer, found it difficult to answer anyway, “No.”

Margaret’s brows wrinkled scowling, “How can we not?”

“We just – we can’t,” he said, rubbing his thumb over his hand.

Margaret lifted her chin up, standing to her full height, narrowed her eyes at him, “Can’t or won’t.”

Mulcahy’s jaw visibly clenched, “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, turned to Cole, the young recruit.

“Put her on a litter and get ready to leave,” he said, before returning to the hybrid.

_Have you ever been in an institution? Cells._

_Do they keep you in a cell? Cells._

Margaret slammed the hybrid door closed – not paying attention to the noise Mulcahy was making with the geo-positioning system beside her. She leaned back in the jeep, folding her arms, scowling.

“Permission to curse, Colonel.”

Mulcahy raised a brow as he input coordinates, pausing a second, and figured he deserved the chilly address.

“Permission granted.”

“What the fuck was that?” she said, feeling no less better for having cursed.

“Hmmm,” he said, as he punched in their new destination, “men were getting uneasy, had to balance the scales.”

Margaret bit her lip, weighing if she accepted that answer or not.

“Plausible,” she said, drummed her fingers on the dash, “but that isn’t everything is it?”

Mulcahy looked up from the geo-positioning system, at the side of Margaret’s face, “No, but do you really want to know the reason?”

A moment of silence passed, as Mulcahy finished inputting the coordinates and Margaret gave what he said thought, “No, I guess not,” she said, “Just promise me, was it a good reason.”

Mulcahy smiled wanly, “Promises, Major, those are dangerous out here.”

“I know,” she said, they knew all too well, “now tell me. Was it a _good_ reason?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure that out,” he said, and pressed a button on the geo-positioning system, it chimed and spoke, announcing their new destination.

Margaret’s jaw worked in frustration at Mulcahy’s non-answers, and immediately she wanted to dig further, but at the systems announcement she perked up forgetting her worry. She knew only one person that lived in Boston, Massachusetts.

“How’d you – “

Mulcahy raised an imperious brow, “You’ll be surprised what resources the Church can afford you when you’re searching for someone who owns stock in both Weyland Industries and Tyrell Corporations,” he said, before turning the hybrid – and the convoy - in the direction of Boston.


	3. Chapter 3

_When you're not performing your duties do they keep you in a little box? Cells._

_Interlinked._

In the dark their faces reflected blue against halogen lamps providing artificial warmth in the cold desert. The blue sky had abandoned them in the night, deep purple hues hung over them. Margaret searched the faces of the soldiers, bodies wrapped in foil blankets bunking down for the night.

“How is Charles?” she said, and shook her head rephrasing, “I mean how is he not – “

“Hmm, Charles always had particularly good foresight, when it came to business,” Mulcahy said in response.

Margaret inclined her head, an invitation to continue.

Mulcahy nodded, chewing thoughtfully on a nail, “Charles found the middle way in the aftermath. Where we were less fortunate.”

“Fortunate?”

“Blessed,” Mulcahy reiterated, continued “He saw what was to come and bought stock in Tyrell and Weyland, with his own fortune already in peril, it was a win-win.”

“Do you really think Charles knew what was going to happen?” Margaret said, waving a hand into the dark, “All of this, I mean.”

Mulcahy frowned staring into the halogen lamp, “No, not like this.”

_What's it like to hold the hand of someone you love? Interlinked._

_Do they teach you how to feel finger to finger? Interlinked._

BJ was coming up on his destination, hour after hour, clock ticking minute after minute. The vast desert rising in front of him, could see the vague outline of a skyline. The floating dirigibles he knew advertised shuttles to Off-World colonies to those desperate for work and those looking for an escape.

Still he wasn’t where he wanted to be, as the past leaked into the present, the more he remembered. The more he ran over those last weeks in the MASH, the change of command, sudden and unexpected, the replicants. Watching helpless as Hawkeye, disappeared, no, taken away.

And he found discrepancies, odd notices in his deliveries, return to sender, addresses. Now he was following that thread, returning the package stylized W emblazoned on it to sender.

The Boston skyline rose as he neared, and BJ couldn’t help but admire it as he pulled into the city limits. Neon and halogen lights reflecting off his skin, bathing it in hues of red and green, and smelt the smog of the city.

_Do you long for having your heart interlinked? Interlinked._

_Do you feel that there's a part of you that's missing? Interlinked._

Hawkeye leant back in the metal chair, rocking back and forth, watching the psychiatrist who sat across from him. This was his seventy-eighth session with the doctor and they still couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him – or more correctly his mind.

Sidney Freedman tapped the machine in front of him – ostensibly a recording device – and began the session.

“Alright, Hawkeye you know what to do?”

Hawkeye nodded, and looked into the ocular device, met Sidney’s eyes.

Sidney looked down at a piece of paper – a questionnaire – and began.

“You are on a boat and a boy is drowning you, what do you do?”

“I hate him,” Hawkeye responded with no hesitation.

Sidney shook his head, next question, “You are on a boat, a boy pushes you into the water, what do you do?”

“I thank him.”

“The boy is your first love, he pushes you into the water, what do you do now?”

“I love him.”

Hawkeye shook his head, a look of confusion overtaking his face, “No, no I hate him.”

Sidney frowned imperceptibly, turned the ocular device off, “That’ll be all Hawkeye.”

_Do you dream about being interlinked?_

_Do you like to connect to things? Interlinked._

The convoy rolled into the city, halogen lights reflected off their white uniforms and collars, guns held in hands firmly. Soldiers peered from the backs of jeeps, down at the Boston residents packed into the small city, one resident whistled at the convoy as it passed.

Another yelled, “Fuck you!”

“Sol is the true Lord,” yelled another, “his Light, will guide us into Paradise.”

Mulcahy glanced in the direction of the voice, saw a young man, hair shorn into an unusual style.

Trent scowled, now driving, said “Do you want to stop the convoy, sir?”

Margaret, leaned forward from the backseat, “He’s just a kid, Father.”

“I know,” he said, biting his nail, chewing it in thought, “keep going.”

Slowly the convoy spilled out into a sparse grassy knoll, a well-kept mansion sitting on a hill awaited their arrival. Two servants stood outside, dogs on leashes sat beside them.

Margaret, Mulcahy, Trent, and Cole approached, walking up the hill. Mulcahy stepped forward addressing the two servants, hands folded in front of him.

“We wish to speak to Charles Winchester the Third,” he said, as diplomatically as possible.

“The young Lord isn’t expecting visitors today,” said the servant at the left of the door, as she caressed the dog.

“Perhaps you’d like to schedule a meeting with our Lord,” said the other, a small smile quirking the man’s mouth.

Mulcahy smiled crookedly, “No, I would not,” he said, “But, perhaps, he’d make time for Father Francis Mulcahy.”

“And if not?” said the female servant.

“Then he’ll have to make time for Margaret Houlihan,” she said, stepping forward.

The two servants looked at each other, seemed to communicate something, “You may come in,” and the doors opened at their beckoning and entered the mansion.

_Have they left a place for you where you can dream? Interlinked._

_What's it like to hold your child in your arms? Interlinked._

Charles sat down, crossing his legs, as he took in a face, he hadn’t thought he’d see ever again. He looked Mulcahy up and down, as the man observed a painting nailed to the wall, Charles took a healthy sip of scotch. Or a gulp.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t those colors belong to Cardinals?” said Charles, putting down the glass, a servant stepped forward and refilled it, two fingers.

Mulcahy, watched the servant, and glanced at Trent and Cole, sedately watching. “Human?” he asked.

“Yes, I wouldn’t trust anything less.”

Mulcahy nodded slowly, turned his back on Charles, observing the painting again.

“Do you know what it is?” asked Charles, “the painting I mean.”

“No,” turned around, “does it matter.”

Charles frowned, “I suppose not.”

A moment of silence passed, too much to say room pregnant with the unsaid. Mulcahy traced a pattern in the woodgrain of the end table, looked up, met Charles blue gaze.

“What do you know of Tyrell Corporations?”

“Not much, they deal in bio engineering – replicants,” said Charles, taking a seat next to the crackling fire, “You’d know more then me,” jerking his head in the direction of Trent.

“I’d like to know more,” Mulcahy responded, as he lit a cigarette, and inhaled, “Specifically, where the unstable replicants are housed?”

Charles grimaced, “Oh, of course I don’t mind if you smoke in my luxurious mansion, thanks for asking.”

Mulcahy, glanced at the embers on the carpet, at the cigarette, and shrugged sheepishly as he put it out against the wooden end table.

Charles winced, “That paramilitary of yours has really destroyed all your manners, hasn’t it?”

Mulcahy shrugged, “I’ll try to work on it.”

“It’s dangerous what you’re trying to do, you know that right,” said Charles, in that grave tone he used, in the 4077th when he talked business.

Mulcahy glanced at the painting covering almost the entire wood paneled wall, observing the dark shadows and play of light on ivory skin. It looked familiar but couldn’t place it.

He nodded, at Charles’ warning, and looked at him again, “Do you still dream?”

“Of course, I do?” he said, scoffing at the ridiculous question.

Mulcahy nodded slowly like that answered a very important question.

“Do you have it?”

“I do,” said Charles, “and what do I get in return?”

Mulcahy gripped the end table, not wanting to let go, “Power cores.”

“Not exactly rare, but for you I’ll take it,” he responded, and as he said so a servant approached, handed Mulcahy a gray folder.

Mulcahy opened the folder, flipping the pages slowly not wanting to miss a single bit of it. He looked up at Charles - as he revealed the last page – saw the pictures, faces, and tags. All so familiar yet foreign, under the Tyrell Corporations direction.

“This folder how many have seen it?”

“Myself and just now, you.”

“No one else can see this,” Mulcahy intoned, and crossed the room.

“I told you it was dangerous. Knowledge is power.”

Mulcahy stopped, standing inches from where Charles was seated by the hearth. “I know and some knowledge shouldn’t be known,” he said, and tossed the folder into the fire.

Charles bolted up, shouting, “No, you ingrate,” and made to grab at least one of the papers, instinct to protect the evidence of such powerful leverage. Only managing to grab ahold of one, the most damning of all.

“Charles, it’s too much, the public – “

“Damn, the public, you don’t care about them,” shouted Charles, pushing Mulcahy into the end table, “this is about your silly little mission.”

Charles held up the personnel file, paper crunching in his grip, displaying the contents for Mulcahy to see. Mulcahy’s gaze drifted to the photo on the paper – in black and white, grainy but still recognizably Benjamin Franklin Pierce.

Mulcahy frowned, at the image, “It’s not a mission.”

“Whatever you call it, I don’t want anything to do with it,” said Charles, pushing the paper into Mulcahy’s chest until he had to take it or risk dropping it.

Taking the file, he looked at the image, at the face of Hawkeye years younger than he’d been in the MASH and folded it into his pocket. Charles had always been reluctant to get involved in more sentimental matters, usually quicker to make a business deal then take a risk. Unless of course, there was incentive in it for him.

“You should consider it?” said Mulcahy, pressing his shirt back down, now recalling the subject of that painting.

“Why?”

“If this came out Tyrell’s stocks could drop considerably.”

Charles down his nose at Mulcahy, mouth pulling down, “You would do well, Father, to not fall on your own sword.”

“I’ll consider it,” he said.

Charles prepared to leave the room, “Oh, the power cores.”

“On a litter outfront.”


	4. Chapter 4

_What happens when that linkage is broken? Interlinked._

_Have they let you feel heartbreak? Interlinked._

BJ kicked the stand-out, looking up at the mansion sitting on the hill, a preemptive relief threatened to take over. What he’d been looking for lay near now, answers just beyond the gates. Yet, as he observed the manicured lawn, he saw it dotted with soldiers – a new fanatic paramilitary he thought. But as he got closer, walking into the temporary campsite, BJ recognized faces – ones he hadn’t gotten to know well, but they were all undoubtedly those from the 4077th.

“Hunnicutt, Captain Hunnicutt!” shouted a voice, BJ swirled around, saw a man bolting out of the crowd of white clad soldiers.

“Hey, wow, it’s really you,” said Goldman grinning, “didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

BJ could only nod dumbly in response, as he saw more and more familiar faces, Kellye, Able, and Harris. Some armed, others not, the 4077th as he knew it was never so military as this was.

“Yeah, it’s just BJ now,” he said.

Goldman grinned, “Sure,”

“Where – “he began to ask, but Goldman seemed to predict what he was thinking.

“Boss is up there,” Goldman jerked his chin in the direction of the mansion.

“Right, thanks,” BJ responded, giving Goldman a friendly squeeze of the shoulder.

BJ weaved his way through the crowd, eyes focused on his boots, trying not to make note of who he saw, or didn’t. Chest thudding as he approached the entrance, mind racing at the implications of the 4077th being here now, at the location he had worked so hard to find.

He pushed the door open and froze. Standing in the foyer he saw Father Mulcahy and Charles Winchester, BJ’s entrance having surprised them as much as their presence surprised him.

BJ took in their faces, clean and dressed, thought to how he found this location, and felt his chest constrict and cheeks heat up. The memory of Hawkeye being taken away, flashing in full color in his mind.

“Sir?” said a voice, breaking the spell, BJ jumped looking at the woman, and the low light reflected off her eyes.

He saw red eyes.

BJ’s fist swung – someone shouted – his fist connected with flesh and a crack split the air. Incredibly strong arms held him back and all he could do was kick and shout, snarling. 

_Did you buy a present for the person you love? Within cells interlinked._

_Why don't you say that three times? Within cells interlinked. Within cells interlinked. Within cells interlinked._

Pain burst out from Mulcahy’s nose, pretty sure it was broken from the impact, knew BJ was not the type to pull back a punch. Yet, jumped in front of the blow anyway when Trent could have taken the hit with little damage.

Blood spilled down his front onto the marble floor, he stumbled back. A hand gripped his shoulder, steadying, another cupped his cheek, smearing blood across his face.

“Head back, I know you know better,” said Charles, as he pushed Mulcahy’s head back, trying to keep him upright at the same time.

“Hnnnn,” was all the response Mulcahy could muster.

“Sir, what do you want me to do with this traitor,” _Oh, Trent remembered him,_ Mulcahy thought, blearily.

“Hnn, le’ ‘m go.”

“Can you repeat that?”

Mulcahy tried to look at Trent, falling out of Charles grip, blood gushing out of his nose as a result.

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Charles, as he pushed Mulcahy’s forehead back.

“What is going on?”

Trent looked at Margaret, “What do I do with this traitor?” she said, tightening her grip on BJ, who looked perfectly miserable, but not sorry.

Margaret’s eyes widened, “Let him go.”

Trent reluctantly released BJ, glaring at him as she did so and stepped back. Charles scoffed at the display of bravado, hauling Mulcahy’s still dazed out of the room, down the winding halls, and into the expansive kitchen.

Mulcahy immediately leant against the counter, head tilted back, and tugged his Roman collar off blood spattering it.

“You know,” started Charles, as he dug around the cabinets for a first aid kit, “you deserved that.”

Mulcahy made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, trying not to swallow any more blood than he already had.

“Good, since you seem to be unable to _talk._ I’ll do it,” Charles continued, as he examined Mulcahy’s nose, looking for breaks.

“Well it’s definitely broken, Hunnicutt’s bark is _worse_ than his bite.”

Charles centered his hands on either side of Mulcahy’s broken nose, now plugged with bloodied tissue, Charles raised his brow, “I’m sure you know what this means, padre, uh, I’d advise you to brace yourself.”

Mulcahy gripped the side of the counter, holding on, as he tried to not react in pain as Charles swiftly reset his nose in place and pain bloomed from the center of his face to his eyeballs in white hot spikes.

“There you go, all set, and straight as an arrow.”

Charles sighed, leaning against the kitchen island, glancing quickly at the doorway where Trent, Mulcahy’s ever present shadow stood. He frowned, seeing a slight resemblance around the mouth and eyes. Charles had only seen a picture once, but once was enough for the Winchester memory.

He looked at Mulcahy, trying to rub the blood off his face with a kitchen towel, effectively staining Charles’ embroidered hand towels.

“You’re replicant,” Charles began, watching Mulcahy wipe the last of the blood off the now reddened towel, “is she -,” Charles said, leaving the question hanging, unvoiced, feeling that old social pressure to not pry that his father had feed him from childhood.

Mulcahy looked up meeting his gaze, a penetrating look that told Charles everything he needed to know. Charles own natural curiosity winning out as he compared the surface resemblance, round eyes, mouth, and chin. However superficial the resemblance was, in coloring they were different, Trent’s olive skin and brown eyes and hair.

“I see,” he said, simply, feeling warm embarrassment color his cheeks. As though he had just asked a terribly personal question.

Though Charles was a surgeon and familiar with the natural process of life and death and biology, the intricacies of bioengineering were lost on him. To Charles, it was a mystery, now where he stood, looking at Trent in living breath, it seemed a miracle.

Too good to be true.

“Was this what they offered you,” said Charles, staring at that ruined towel, Mulcahy frowned biting his lip, “parlor tricks?”

Mulcahy stared at Charles, mouth straining in a straight line, “No, something entirely different.”

“Then what?” said Charles, wondering if she even knew. Was it ethical? Doctor’s training screaming at him, the words of Hippocrates demanded attention.

“Resurrection,” said Mulcahy, gaze far off studying the fractals in the marble countertop.

Charles scoffed, huffing, “You’re out of your mind, padre,” he said, waving a hand, “replicants are closer in kin to a homunculus than any human.”

Mulcahy frowned, meeting Charles’ gaze, “Replicants are soulless, incapable of emotion,” he said monotone like he was repeating a mantra.

Charles squinted at him, “Does she know?”

“No, there are memories – implanted, helps with adapting to new environments.”

Charles nodded slowly, trying to quell the urge to reveal all he learned to Trent. “What happens if they figure it out?”

“They become unstable,” said Mulcahy, as he put the collar back on - the symbol of his vocation and oath – was spattered in blood, “and then retire.”

“Retired?”

Mulcahy looked up at Charles, from his shorter height.

“Killed,” he clarified, and turned to leave.

Charles stood stunned, letting Mulcahy leave as everything fell into place. Retirement, unstable replicants, insanity and memories. Those last days in the 4077th.

_Where do you go when you go within? Within._

_Has anyone ever locked you out of a room? Within._

Swallowed reflexively; water burned as it filled his lungs. Knew he was drowning just like all the other times he drowned in his dreams. The only dream he ever had in his life.

Always he fell in the pond – like a klutz – and he struggled because he couldn’t swim and after a few seconds of heart stopping terror his cousin Billy, pulled him out. The memory awash in relief, warm with the sunlight falling on his cold skin, and Billy touching his bare skin clapping his back.

_You’d be dead if it weren’t for me._

Every night he closed his eyes and dreamt of Billy’s cold blue eyes squinting at him, smiling warmly, or was it coldly because the water was so cold. He saw the hand clap his back, the wet slap, and he fell in the water. Air escaping his lungs in a panicked rush of fear.

Hawkeye jolts awake back in the psych ward staring at gray drab walls – no longer the olive drab he’d gotten used to in Korea.

He looks into that device, staring into his eyes, and answers the same questions over and over. Sidney sits down across from him and he conjures up memories of a boy, he hates – no loves – and cold water and the smell of mold.

Mildew, cold, and wet, clinging to his skin and nostrils for so long he must smell his food just to make sure it isn’t rotten. Must ask BJ, damn BJ – he has no idea where he is – if his food smells right, is it still good, it isn’t rotted is it. Not mushy like the bruised skin of a plum, sometimes he feels like that. A piece of fruit that’s been handled to roughly by too many hands, squeezed beyond ripeness, until his insides spill out.

BJ is his anchor, that handles him gently, and doesn’t let his fleshy insides turn sour. BJ is where he knows the sun shines, smiling warmly, and Hawkeye knows it’s genuine. BJ, he realizes solidified his dreams, his reality, none of it was real.

Sidney, wrote down notes on a pad, “You fall in love with a knight in shining armor, what do you do?”

“I retire,” Hawkeye says, emotionless, as the ocular device whirs in front of him, reflecting red pupils back at him.

In his dreams Billy pushes him in the pond, laughing. In his dreams – memories – there is nothing. He is nothing, hollow.

_Where is the place in the world you feel the safest? Within._

_Do you have a heart? Within._


End file.
